


Two Ravens, Four Quills & Half a Horn

by andraste take the wheel (foxbones)



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/F, egg sighs, everyone in this party is my best friend, except for egg, i love literally everyone in this party, stabbyhorns mcsupertall and her smol shiny gf, the herald of andrastgay and her inqueersition
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-09-19
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-08-16 03:13:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8084521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxbones/pseuds/andraste%20take%20the%20wheel
Summary: The Inquisitor and the Antivan ambassador are in love. They think they're being subtle about it. They're not.A noble and not-so-noble affair from the chronological perspectives of everyone else in the Inquisition.





	1. solas (a sighing egg)

**Author's Note:**

> things i am trash for:
> 
> a) this game  
> b) this ship
> 
> there's something so unbelievably wonderful about wildly vacillating from death-defying drama and emotional distress to the pure saccharine sweetness of a very tall horned rogue who is only graceful with a pair of daggers (otherwise is hulking mess) attempting to deal with her crush on literally the shiniest tiniest most effective politician in the world. my heart barely survived the main quest.

 

 

 

 

“--and thus these rifts in the veil imperil both this world and the Fade.” Solas sighs. “ _Fenedhis lasa,_ Herald. Does this bore you?”

“Huh? Oh.” The Qunari blinks a few times, her gaze refocusing from directly over his shoulder to the elf before her. She seems to be attempting a reassuring smile, but it has not been surprising to learn over the eons of time that Qunari may be the race least equipped to hide their emotions. “No, you’re not boring. This is very interesting. I’m listening, honest.”

“I’m sorry I am not as interesting as the Antivan ambassador.”

This causes the Qunari to turn red, and laugh uncomfortably. “What?”

“I am aware that she is standing directly behind me. You have been gazing at her since she arrived to speak with the Orlesians.”

“That’s...no, I definitely wasn’t.” The Qunari continues to contort her face into various shades of discomfort and avoidance, shaking her head. She clasps her hands together, smiles unconvincingly at Solas again. “You were saying about the Fade--”

“We can speak another time, my lady.”

“But I’ve got a free hour before dinner.”

“It’s fine, Herald.” He sighs, suppresses the instinct to shake his head and roll his eyes. _Patience, Solas._ He must have patience. He has faith in the Inquisition, and faith in this Herald who fell out of the sky a scant few weeks before. Whether or not he has faith in her ability to not be distracted by mortal needs, if she is to be as important as the Fade indicates, is another matter.

Unfortunately, the ambassador is very pretty. Perhaps these distractions will be more permanent than is ideal.

 

 

 

 

“You’re sure you don’t need anything more, Master Solas?”

“Solas,” he corrects, though the ambassador does not even flinch. “I am no one’s master.”

“Of course.” Lady Josephine makes a note of something in her ledger, most likely crossing out a title that was not his to begin with. “I know you say you’re used to more... _austere_ accommodations, but I don’t want anyone in Haven feeling they must sacrifice comfort for the sake of the Inquisition. I’ve made sure the budget is quite generous when it comes to lodging.”

“I have no preference for adornments. I have slept on stone before.”

The ambassador smirks. “You sound like the Herald,” she says. “She said she’d be fine with a hay loft. When I told her that visiting dignitaries will most certainly have something to say about Andraste’s chosen one living in a barn, she told me that they’d be expecting all the animals housed together.” The Antivan’s teeth drag at her lower lip, her eyes unfocused. Solas feels a very strong sigh coming on. “She’s lucky she is so charming, or all of her self-deprecating jokes would be more of a hazard to our diplomacy efforts.”

“Yes,” Solas says, and he has to force himself not to deadpan. “She is charming.”

The ambassador is now gazing off somewhere in the distance, clearly lost in some stimulating memory. “And so... _tall_.”

“Yes,” Solas sighs. “She is very tall.”

 _Fenedhis lasa,_ they are all doomed.

 

 

 

 


	2. cullen (possible accessory to murder)

 

 

 

 

Cullen is a man of routine, and a man of example. A Templar knows that it takes one to set the other. So being the earliest riser in Haven, a notable feat in a village of overachievers sworn to halt the world’s end, is an obligation as well as a small carved-out space of personal pleasure. Cullen likes waking before the dawn. He likes how the sunrise clears the stars away as if they were swept by a dutiful hand. He likes the solitude, and the bite of the air, and how alien the winter of Haven is to the winter of Honnleath, or Kirkwall, or anywhere else that rears its head at the pull of his memories. There is very little that he is reminded of when faced with the Haven dawn. Sometimes it is best this way - to have something be itself, and nothing else.

It is on one such morning that he discovers he is not alone in his early paces.

The Herald of Andraste is crouched on the Chantry steps - crouching is something Cullen notices she does quite often, and he’s unsure if it’s the instincts of a rogue or the habit of someone trying desperately to make themselves seem smaller and less intimidating. She’s working at something with her fingers, and it’s not until he’s closer that he sees what it is - an elaborate knot of red and gold thread. Strange, he thinks, to see hands twice the size of a human’s attempting such delicate work. Perhaps not too successfully, as the Herald curses, starts pulling on one end of the knot, undoing a portion of it, and starts again.

He recognizes the knot - a simpler version was given to his mother by his father, the other half kept around his neck in a leather pouch, always under his tunics. And he remembers the more elaborate ones in Kirkwall, slipped between the fingers of mages. 

“I don’t suppose that’s the result of a new requisition order, Herald,” he jokes, and she starts when she sees him approaching the Chantry, blowing on his fingers in the cold. She gets to her feet, her fist closing around the knot. “I didn’t think anyone else was mad enough to be out at this hour. You must have been awake before me.”

“Haven’t slept yet,” she says, her free hand circling the broken stub of her horn. It’s now that he recognizes the exhaustion in her expression, the extra weight to her smile. Only a month since they began calling her the Herald, and already the effects of her attempts to shift and bend and break herself around the shape of the title are obvious.

He tries to think of something to say, something reassuring or kind. “The morning air is supposed to be, uh...good for the health. Very stimulating.” 

“If you say so.” The Qunari makes a face, smirking. “It certainly smells better than the Fallow Mire. Ruined my best boots in the swamp - can’t get the reek out, they’re that foul. I told Minaeve she can study them to use as weapons in the future. We’ll just throw them at the enemy until they pass out.” She sniffs her sleeve. “I’m paranoid I still stink, to be honest.”

“I haven’t heard any complaints regarding your stench.” He nods at the threads hanging from her fist. “I’m impressed you can do work with your fingers when it’s so bloody cold out here.”

The Herald of Andraste shrugs. “Qunari don’t feel the cold. We have beast’s blood.” At his expression, she snorts, shaking her head and grinning. “I’m kidding. We _definitely_ feel the cold. And this is just a personal project, something to keep my mind off things.” She’s put her hands behind her back now, a gesture not lost on Cullen. “Nothing interesting, honestly.”

“Very well, Herald.” He nods, smiles politely. “I’ll leave you to it.” 

Even the chosen of the Maker is entitled to her secrets. He can see the value in that, perhaps more than most.

 

 

 

 

It will be months later, in the late afternoon light of Josephine’s office at Skyhold, that Cullen sees the knot again. It’s been an unusually warm day, and he has dispensed of his fur cape, and she of her scarf. They are discussing the terms of contract of a new company of recruits, and Josephine breaks the point of her quill, opens a desk drawer to fish out a new one. When she bends down, he notices it. There, on a thin gold chain tucked between her breasts, a knot of red and gold thread. 

He clears his throat, makes a concerted effort to look elsewhere. The ambassador only raises an eyebrow at this, and then continues to make an account of the company’s supplies. 

Later, at a dinner he is obligated to attend where visiting nobles have made a great and almost embarrassing effort to sit at the same table as Andraste’s chosen hero, it is not lost on him that the Inquisitor retires early, and Josephine retires a few minutes after. Nor is it lost on him that the Inquisition’s spymaster has her eyes trained on the door to the Inquisitor’s quarters, cooly sipping her wine. 

_By the Maker,_ he thinks. _Leliana’s going to murder her._

 

 

 

 


	3. mother giselle (gal pals)

 

 

 

 

Even Andraste’s light is not enough for a frozen peak, lit by a fickle moon, hope hanging as if by a thread. Mother Giselle paces from one broken bone and frostbitten limb to the next, careful to stay within earshot of the Inquisition’s advisors. The Seeker circles the fire over and over again, hand on the hilt of her sword, cursing every time the wind howls and the fire must be relit. Commander Cullen is no longer huddled in his fur, having given up part of his cloak to a group of children tucked beneath a wagon. The spymaster snips the conversation with her own pair of exacting shears, though it is obvious her patience is thin, her hands always curved as if about to pray. She is the only one who notices Mother Giselle, and when their eyes meet, it is almost desperation that passes between them.

Everyone is all too aware of the Herald’s cold body pulled from the snow, laying now in a tent in the encampment. Andraste’s name on her tongue, a prayer ready, Mother Giselle does not expect the sight she finds within.

The Antivan ambassador is sitting beside the Qunari, her hand resting on the Herald’s arm. When Giselle enters the tent, Lady Josephine turns, revealing damp eyes.

“Oh,” she says, quickly wiping at her face. “I didn’t, I didn’t think--”

Mother Giselle keeps her smile tight. “How is she doing?”

Lady Josephine sniffs, tucks her hand on her lap quickly. “Still unconscious, I’m afraid.”

“I believe she will recover.”

The Antivan is wrapped in a fur cloak, making her look even smaller than she is. “You do?”

“Yes, my dear. Believing is all we have tonight, but it is powerful nonetheless.” She nods at the Herald. “I can watch her now. I think your colleagues may need you more than she does at this moment.”

“I...thank you.” Lady Josephine gets to her feet, pauses at the tent door. Mother Giselle is not surprised when she turns before leaving, hand in a fist at her side. “She’s just...she’s very important. To all of us.”

“Of course.”

“Please don’t tell them I was crying.”

“There is nothing to tell, dear.”

It is sweet, Mother Giselle thinks, to see such sisterly devotion between two women. A friendship like that will carry the Inquisition far.

 

 

 

 


	4. the requisition officer (the inquisition’s finest)

 

 

 

 

The Hinterlands are a nightmare, and the requisition officer finds she’s washing more blood off her armor than mud. Three weeks ago she was hitching a wagon ride to Haven, head held high, a spring in her step, off to join the Inquisition and save the world. Now she’s trying to sleep on the edge of a cliff while just outside her tent, demons massacre the last of the Apostates and the last of the Apostates massacre the last of the Templars and a new influx of Inquisition officers pour in from every corner, attempting to clean up the mess. 

_Have a nice time gathering minerals, they said. See if you can find 30 bundles of elfroot, they said. You’ll just be assembling puzzle boxes and setting up camp, they said._

It’s hard not to be bitter when you were meant to be quietly inventorying supplies in a dry tent, and instead you’re dodging bear attacks and flaming fireballs and trying not to drop any embrium while outrunning a pack of deranged glowing Templars. Such is the life of a requisition officer in the Hinterlands. That, and being responsible for any ravens.

There’s been two ravens within the span of a day, the first with messages from the Inquisitor’s advisors, the standard communications. Technically, she isn’t meant to be reading through these, but sometimes in the process of unrolling the parchment and resealing for the Inquisitor’s eyes only, she has a tendency to make a quick scan. Which is how she knows that their spymaster is not someone to _ever_ get on the pissing side of, and there is something peculiar going on between the Antivan ambassador and the Inquisitor. This from the communication in the ambassador’s neat hand:

_Inquisitor,_

_I have not slept since you left for the Hinterlands. It is the second time I have seen you off to Redcliffe, but it was not on the terms I would have liked. I find it difficult not to dwell on what transpired on the eve of your departure. I do not know what you must think of me now._

_I should not have quarreled with you about the number of reinforcements you were bringing. Now I am afraid that you are under the impression that I don’t think you can take care of yourself -- I do, of course, and Cullen has reassured me that your skill in combat is more than adept for the newest conflict. He believes my fears were unfounded. Perhaps they were._

_I just don’t think you fully grasp your importance, Inquisitor - what you represent to the people of Thedas, what you mean to us. If anything were to happen to you, we would be lost. We would never be the same. I know it is still new to you, this significance, and perhaps you are not yet aware of it, but I assure you that there are those who see you as a beacon of hope, and would not want to carry on without you. You are everything to them, Inquisitor. They think of you daily and worry for your safety._

_I don’t say this to place more of a burden on your shoulders. I know the weight you already carry. I only wish you would be more careful, and not such a...mercenary rogue at times._

_As always, please take care._

_Josephine_

Within an hour of the first crow, a second arrives. This one carries a parchment sealed with the crest of a ship, and is written in the hand of the ambassador, though she was clearly in a hurry from the smeared ink at the bottom of the page.

_Please disregard the previous communication. That was sent by error. Please do not deliver to the Inquisitor._

_Ambassador Josephine Montilyet_

Well. That is certainly an interesting development, nearly as interesting as this morning, when she discovered a bandit’s corpse being chewed by a nug. Yes, this certainly takes the carnivorous nug cake.

She gets so distracted by the sudden appearance of a bear that only a few hours later she’s nearly forgotten the second letter. When the Inquisitor returns to camp with her companions, the officer rushes over.

“Inquisitor!” --

\--only to remember that she probably shouldn’t hand over that particularly confessional parchment from the ambassador.

The Inquisitor is removing her gloves, unstrapping her daggers. “What is it, officer?”

The requisition officer turns red. “Nothing to report, ser.”

The Qunari looks confused. She raises an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Yes, ser. Apologies, ser.”

“Okay. Uh, carry on, then.”

As the Inquisitor heads back to her tent, the requisition officer nearly kicks herself. Andraste’s tits. Well, she didn’t take this job for her people skills. She’s supposed to be gathering drakestone and nugskins, for the Maker’s sake. Too late now, she thinks, and goes back to the task of counting elfroot. Certainly more important than the affairs of the Inquisitor.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "inquisitor!" "what?" "nothing to report ser" was my least/most favorite buggy thing in this game


	5. cole (golden thread in knots)

 

 

 

 

Cole is sitting in the Skyhold baths with his clothes on, the water drawn up to his shoulders. It is not so loud here, the sound of the world’s despair, and he can’t quite feel all the shudderings of want and need when he is mostly submerged in a bath. It was Adaar who had shown him last week, when there was pain radiating from her shoulders and the long scars of memory along her spine and brow, but there was warm light, too, like a sun in each palm. She had thought that it might help him, being in the water. She had thought it might help him to isolate and feel.

Cole likes to feel, when it is his own feeling.

Now he sits in the water, and there is not so much of the noise. He takes the bath in the corner where there is darkness and quiet. He knows this is a feeling called relief, because Adaar has spoken to him about such a feeling, and Varric, too. It is like lifting and sinking at the same time. 

The door is opening, a torch lighting on the far end of the room. He does not need to look to know the familiar pattern of soreness, the weights of lonely and burdened and tired. The Inquisitor does not notice Cole. The Inquisitor fills a bath with steaming water, sighs loudly enough for him to hear even half-submerged, and steps in. 

Cole reads the exhaustion, even through the quiet. It is run through with hope and desperation and pain, small but still noticeable. And there is something else like a golden thread, lacing in and out, pulling and tugging and never quite looping back into itself. This is a good thread, a thread that can touch and be touched in return.

The door opens again. Now it is the shape of a fire built from names, and the Ambassador is entering, standing still when she sees the Inquisitor.

“ _Oh_ , my apologies, My Lady.”

“Ambassador, I--”

“I am so sorry. I...really, I’ll just, I’ll just go back up--”

“No, it’s--” But the Ambassador has turned around and left, closing the door behind her.

Cole lifts his head from the water - there are more noises now, but they are not so pressing, not so needy. Not needy enough to stop him from recognizing the louder ones in the bath.

“She was very warm when she saw you,” he says, and there is a splash from the other side of the baths, a broken horn disappearing and then reappearing as Adaar sputters in the water.

“Cole!”

He blinks at her, otherwise unmoving. “Adaar.”

“You _scared_ me. How long have you been here?”

“I have been practicing, like you showed me. To make it quiet.” He holds up a cupped palm of water to show what he is sitting in. “But she was very warm, the Ambassador. When she saw you, the flames all grew and grew, and part of her was like a match striking over and over again. She felt pleasure--”

“ _Cole._ ” Adaar makes a face, and he recognizes this sweet and sour feeling in her neck and her chest, too. It is the one called embarrassment, but woven through it is the same golden thread as before.

“You are warm, too. There is a golden thread.” He could pull on it, if it was before. But he is better now, he knows that those things are best left alone. “It is her thread, I think.”

“Please don’t tell anyone else that,” she says, and sinks back down into the bath, covering her face with a hand. She lifts one finger to look at him out of the corner of her eye. “Is it helping you? The bathwater. Is it quieter?”

“Yes,” he says, and he lowers himself even more, smiling. “Yes, it is quiet here, Adaar. It is very...nice.”

And Adaar is clearer now with many different types of warmths and lights. Something like relief but heavier, newer.

“Good,” she says. “I’m glad.”

Yes, he can feel that, too.

 

 

 

 


	6. sera (official advisor to the inquisition)

 

 

 

 

Okay, so she wasn’t spying, right? Because that’d be all messed and sure Adaar’s a ride and _woof_ and you would, right, like you’d be crazy not to, but she wasn’t spying. She was sitting on the roof, because she does that and it isn’t messed to sit on roofs, no matter how many times Cully-Wully threatens to make up a rule about it, the egg-spattered codpiece. Were those Sera’s eggs? No, they were the kitchen’s eggs, stupid. Those eggs belonged to the Inquisition. Was she throwing those eggs off Cullen’s roof? No, she was rolling them. Entirely different, innit? Like there’s a certain level of malice if you’re throwing eggs but rolling them is basically doing them a favor. 

Anyway.

She’s on the roof, and it’s not strictly her roof, because occasionally roofs need climbing and she isn’t picky what roof the eggs roll off. There’s a window just about there, and sure, she can see through the window, and who is it? It’s Adaar, Sera’s second best friend after the egg that hit Cullen directly on his fat head, perfect little egg. And what’s Adaar doing? Well, you know what she’s doing, right? Here, if you put this finger there and make that shape with those fingers there and you kind of work the two of them back and forth, right, that’s about it, there. Fuckin’ hot, right? Exactly. But also not exactly, which is something else entirely, see.

Anyway. Anyway, anyway, anyway.

So it’s the next day and Adaar happens to show up at her room, all grins and square shoulders and she wants some roof time, right? Not _that_ kind of roof time, but Sera’s already thinking about yesterday’s roof time and trying not to laugh to herself about it but she’s failing because the snickers keep leaking, and then they’re spilling, and then Adaar’s asking her what’s so funny anyway.

“You’re not _doing_ it right,” she snorts, half-gnawing on her apple.

Adaar makes a face. “Not doing what right?”

“I mean, not to shit on your technique or nothing, but it won’t work from that angle, not when you’re all like cramped up and cautious and all that shite. Cos like, you’re huge, right?” She grabs one of Adaar’s hands, shakes it around a bit for emphasis. “Look at this monster. Fuckin’ massive. And like that’s pretty great, _woof_ village population you, but it’s kind of _aaah nooo_ , too. So you’ve got to build her up to it, but you can’t do that if you’re all like trying to make yourself smaller and whatever. Embrace the fact you’re a massive fuckin’ beast, right? Own it and all that.”

Adaar stares at her own hand for a good few seconds before looking back at Sera, and her eyes get all squinty and her mouth gets all pouty and that’s when she _knows_ she gets it. “Wait, is this about--”

“Of course it is. I mean there’s no one else in this big hunk of rock who is elf-sized all over and knows how to do it with someone you-sized all over. Not that Josie’s elf-sized but like, you know, still not you-sized.”

Adaar is now covering her face with both of her massive hands, groaning like someone stuck her in the spine. “I can’t believe we are discussing this right now.”

“I mean, when else are we gonna talk about it? _She’ll_ thank me if you don’t, trust me.” She makes a couple hand gestures, wiggling her fingers a bit. “I mean, you’ve got advisors for running the whole thing and advisors for making you into an assassin or whatever. I’m like that, except I’m your advisor for the dirty bits.”

“I don’t...I don’t really want you to finish your thought, but I also kind of want to hear what you want to say.”

“Of _course_ you want to hear what I have to say. I’m an expert, right? So here goes - quills out, ears up, and listen carefully, you absolute beast.”

 

 

 

 

“I’m sorry, Sera.” Cullen’s standing behind the war table all Templar-y and legs apart and look at me, I’m important. “These war table meetings are for advisors only.”

“Right, which is why I’m here.”

Cassandra looks up from the map, one eyebrow arched like a cat’s back. “I don’t think we understand, Sera.”

“I’m an _advisor_ , see? Official advisor to the Inquisitor, which means I have to officially advise at these warring table things.”

“This is the first I’m hearing of this,” Cully-Wully grunts, but Leliana, bless her shadowy tricksy heart, shrugs.

"Let her speak, Cullen. Josie, this is allowed, isn't it?"

Ambassador Josephine, otherwise known as the receiving end of Sera's brilliant fucking advice while totally unaware of said fact, smiles pleasantly the way she always does. “The Inquisitor has the right to appoint additional advisors as she sees fit, so long as they represent a specific expertise.”

Sera snorts. “Oh, I got a specific expertise alright.”

Cassandra rolls her eyes. “Maker, do I want to know?”

But just then who happens to walk in but ol’ Inky herself, doing a double take when she sees Sera immediately jumping over to the other side of the war table, standing all important and official-like next to the other advisors.

“Perhaps you can clear this up, Inquisitor--” Cullen starts, but Sera butts in, as she likes to do with the chiseled chunk of order and discipline.

“Listen,” Sera says. “I’m the official advisor on bedroom and dirty bits matters, savvy? You can’t kick me out.”

Cassandra makes a noise between a grunt and a moan, Cullen sighs because he has too much propriety all bottled up in his skull, and Leliana shoots a look between the Inquisitor and Josephine.

“Inquisitor, if this is regarding--”

"I think I have a meeting right now," The ambassador squeaks, frantically paging through her parchment. "Yes, I'm certain I have somewhere else to be." 

Adaar, good ol’ one horned Adaar, rubs at the back of her neck all sheepish-like. “I mean, she's not technically wrong. Sera, I don’t think we need any of that particular advising at these meetings.”

Sera shrugs. “You never know if some Qunari-admiring Orlesian duchess of whateversville needs a good session of premium sudsy love-macking in order to be swayed to our side.” She grins triumphantly at the rest of them. “Fine, I need my afternoons free anyways. For very important matters. But you know where to find me if you got any matters of the sensual kind to require advising, right? Right.” She winks at the ambassador. "You're welcome, by the way."

Lady Josie turns a nice shade of pink. "Oh my," she says. Fuckin' right.

 

 

 

 


	7. krem (ah, fuck it)

 

 

 

 

Krem doesn’t want to pry. He’s learned from the company, and from the shadowy life before it, the one he refuses to revisit, grits his teeth and physically turns away from the memories, that some things are allowed to stay close to the belt.

But then he gets drunk, and the Inquisitor’s right there, and--

Ah, fuck it.

“Boss told me that it’s...hard, being different. Under the Qun, I mean.”

“The Qun’s hard for everyone, or at least that’s what my folks said. I don’t know why Bull’s so wild about it. I guess if it was all he’d ever known, it would make sense, but he’s seen what it’s like out here now, and...” Adaar shrugs, a tinge of red under her grey cheeks. She glances across the room to where Iron Bull is arguing over a tankard with that mage, the one who Bull thinks he can subtly slip into his quarters. “I didn’t grow up under it. I don’t know.”

But Krem’s seen the armor they make in the undercroft, the straps that bind breasts under leather and steel. When he asked about it, wondered if there was someone else like _him_ at Skyhold, someone he hadn’t noticed, Harritt had shrugged and said that was special for the Inquisitor.

He’s not really asking about the Qun. Not really.

“In Tevinter, they didn’t really know what to make of me. I mean, they don’t mind if you end up in a different life, a different body than the one you started with, but they don’t want to hear about it, either. Don’t know how long I would’ve lasted as a Qunari. I know the boss does what he likes but there’s still a role he has to fill in his mind and it was chosen for him a long time ago.” Krem meets Adaar’s eye. “You ever feel like that?”

And Adaar looks at him, and she smirks. “All the damn time. Apparently I’ve got some sort of destiny to fulfill.”

He smiles back. “Apparently. You ever heard of Aqun-Athlok? Boss told me about them.”

Adaar’s smile takes on another shape and Krem’s wondering if he’s overstepped his bounds. “I’m familiar with them.”

Krem clears his throat, takes a swig of his tankard. “Huh.”

Adaar leans closer on the bench, her head near his shoulder. “We’re more similar than you think,” she says, her voice low. “Where I grew up, it wasn’t normal to like girls if you were one, too, even one with horns and a two foot height difference. My parents caught me with our neighbor’s daughter in a stable when I was fourteen. Thought I might be Aqun-Athlok. Didn’t know, didn’t have time to figure it out - everything happened and I was on the road, just trying to stay alive. When I first started with my crew, I dressed like a man half the time. Kept certain folks off my back, kept me out of people’s notice, as much as they won’t notice a bull. I didn’t mind it. Kind of liked it, actually. Apparently I make a handsome rogue.” She sweeps her hand over her front, grinning, but there’s something else to her smile.

Krem nods, holds down the fist in his throat. He knows he’s probably smiling too big right now, but he doesn’t care.

“Yeah,” he says, tries not to blush. “Makes sense.”

“Listen, Dagna’s got this magic harness thing that makes these puppies disappear and feels light as a fucking cloud.” She gestures at her chest, smirks again. “She’ll get you fitted if you want. Might even forget to charge you. Just mention Sera and watch her eyes roll back in her head.”

 

 

 

 

A few weeks later there’s a wager on, and if Krem were a betting man...ah, fuck it, he’s a betting man. He is definitely a betting man. So he isn’t saying no to the company currently gathered in the tavern, laying down coin on whether or not the Inquisitor is going to win some sort of duel, first he’s hearing of it.

Maryden, lute slung over her back, appears to have dropped fifty gold on...something. “Can she use her daggers?”

A new recruit’s palming a few coins, learning forward on her elbows. “I heard it has to be a sword, one-handed.”

Krem shrugs. “Well, she’s not the worst with a sword. Better than you, boss.”

Bull’s hardly been paying attention, very much distracted by his ongoing sexually charged arguments with the Tevinter mage at the other end of the table, but this comment does get him to slide his chair over and drop a heavy arm on Krem’s shoulders.

“Krem Puff, you seem to forget who pays your bar tab.” Bull examines the gold already on the table, clicks his tongue. “Wait, this is a more serious wager than I thought. What are the stakes again?”

“A rather serious emotional situation that should not be taken lightly.” Dorian’s scowling slightly, a common expression for the mage when interacting with the Qunari. “Rare as it is for me to utter the sentiment, this is beneath me.”

“Wait, you know what they’re talking about? And you didn’t tell me?”

Dorian tuts. “It’s a duel, darling. I am sworn to secrecy in regards to its origins.”

“So the boss has just got to duel something?” Bull gestures at the pile of gold, snorting. “What little faith you have in your leader.”

“This is a duel in the Antivan style, very precise and overly complicated. Trust me, there are far too many songs about them.” Maryden pushes a leather pouch across the table. “Ten pieces says she loses but she doesn’t die.”

Scout Harding rolls her eyes. “Don’t we have champions to do this for her?”

Maryden winks. “I have heard that it’s personal.” 

“How personal?”

But Sera’s swung down the stairs now, appearing out of nowhere as she often does, grinning. “Right, so she’s got to stick this Antivan dickbag with a pointy thing so she can stick the Ambassador with _her_ pointy thing. Or like, you know,” Sera raises one hand, wiggling her fingers. “Her glowy green thing.”

The boss has started to laugh, one of the massive belly laughs that ends up shaking the table and nearly spilling their drinks. “She’s doing this for _love_? _Vashedan_ , what an idiot.” He fishes out his coins, drops them on the table. “A hundred gold says she wins, and she gets the fucking girl.”

Krem smirks. 

Later, this will be something he teases Adaar about over the campfire, how he made a whole lot of gold out of her irrational drive to be a hapless romantic at all times where Lady Montilyet is concerned. And years later, when the world is a very different place, he will still bring her up as one of the more dependable good luck charms in his life.

But for now, Bull is rumbling with laughter, and Krem’s going to get a free drink out of him.

 

 

 

 


End file.
